After spending most of my days while Fitz is off training alone—apart from my very annoying shadow who accompanies me on daily walks all through Boston’s North End—I decided that I can’t handle doing absolutely nothing while I wait until my time on the campaign starts. This morning, I called Willow Run Farm, not expecting to be able to get in right away. No one was happier than me, showing up in jeans and my only pair of boots. My riding gear still hasn’t come from Atlanta.

I tuck a piece of hair behind my ear. “It’s been awhile.” I leave out the part about how my recent time in the stables has been anything but traditional. “But I rode as a kid. I jumped for a bit.”

“I’ll get you set up. Let me just bring this girl to the paddocks.” Abby tips her head toward the barn. “Why don’t you go take a look around? Everyone in stalls right now is pretty fit except for the stallion at the end on your left. He’s a little sour. Go on. I’ll follow in a few.”

With Freckles’s lead in her hand, Abby walks away while I shimmy in place before I try not to look like I’m sprinting toward the main barn at the end of the wide path.

Eight stalls flank each side of the barn, and I don’t know where to begin. But I go to the horse that finds me first, which happens to be the stallion at the end on the left.

I know I won’t ride him, but I can’t help myself.

“Hi, gorgeous.” I stop a few feet away, seeing if he’ll back off.

Gray paints his dark, lower muzzle and the strands of his forelock falling between his ears, telling his age. His large nostrils flare when he snorts out a breath. But it’s not agitated. It’s relaxed, like a sweet sigh. I extend my arm and hold out my palm before I move to let him know I’m coming and give him a chance to back away. He doesn’t.

Now closer, I hold my breath. On both sides of me, hay shifts and crunches beneath other hooves that stomp on the floor. But none of that manages to steal any of my focus.

My palm isn’t quite in the stallion’s face, just close enough that he can reach out if he wants to. I gasp quietly when he pushes his muzzle into my hand.

“Oh,” I whisper, overcome by the touch, by the magnificent but gentle feel of him. “Oh, you don’t seem all that grumpy.” I giggle when he munches against my hand. “I’m sorry. I didn’t bring anything. I’ll come better prepared next time.”